The Reach

She couldn't reach it.

Left hand only,

right arm in a cast,

white plaster pressed

against her small ribs.

The cart door hung heavy.

She was trying to pull it open

with the wrong arm,

and her face was tight,

concentrated,

the way children look

when they're learning

that bodies betray you,

that reaching doesn't guarantee

anything.

I watched the line where

plaster met skin,

that thin white edge,

the pressure of being held

and held back.

Someone helped her.

She walked past.

But my wrist was back then—

five years gone,

suddenly present in my own body,

the phantom weight

pressing against ribs

I'd trained to make room,

to accept

the smaller version of myself

that reaches with the wrong hand,

that stretches into absence,

that knows without knowing

what happens when

you can't do

what you're supposed to do.